


And When You Start to Feel the Rush

by countessrivers



Series: Previously, On The Gotham Diaries [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU, Allusions to Hunter Jim Gordon, Blood, Choking, Elements of Dub-Con, M/M, Mind Control, Sibling Incest, Vampire AU, and also Batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: "Bruce has had some odd first dates. His first with Jerome Valeska is probably the oddest. If it can really be called a date.(And the vampire thing is really only at the top of the list of reasons why)"Vampire Twins AU





	And When You Start to Feel the Rush

Jerome is in bed, teeth deep in the lovely pale thigh of his guest, no, his _date_ , when Jeremiah slips back into range of his hearing.

His attention snaps away immediately, focusing in on his brother almost unconsciously. He pulls back, lifting his head and listening carefully, trying to pinpoint his location. From what he can tell, his brother’s still a fair few miles away, on his way back from work.

(Jerome can hear him stop at a set of lights, can hear the idling of the engine, the radios in the cars around him, the creaking of the steering wheel as Jeremiah grips it that little bit too tight. Normally, his hearing wouldn’t stretch so far, but he’s attuned to his brother like nothing else. He’ll always be able to find him.)

He is also, by the sounds of it, mad as hell.

He’s talking to himself. Or rather, he’s ranting angrily, and the anger seems to be directed at him.

“That idiot. That moron. That god damn, _short-sighted psychopath_!”

A car accelerating, a honking horn, Jeremiah hissing furiously.

“Seven people. _Seven people._ In broad daylight. I am going to rip his head off.”

And Jerome can’t help but laugh. He drops down, head against the mattress, and laughs.

Maybe it was childish, but he never not gets a kick out of pissing Jeremiah off. It was just too funny, and far too easy to do. And if his interpretation of his brother’s angry muttering is correct, it wasn’t even intentional this time. Just a pleasant bonus on top of what should be a splendid reaction from his real target.

“What are you laughing at?”

The leg next to his head starts pulling away and Jerome snaps a hand out to hold it firmly in place.

“Not you darling,” he says, lifting his head as his laughter peters out to look up at Bruce Wayne’s pale face. He’s currently sitting up on his elbows, and he’s looking down at Jerome with wide, glassy eyes, pupils so blown they’re practically black. There’s a pretty, red blush spreading down his bare chest, and Jerome can feel the muscles in his leg tense under his hand. He slides his hand down the leg to wrap around Bruce’s ankle, watching as Bruce swallows, eyes following.

“What, then?” he asks, as Jerome slowly drags the leg back out, tugging with the hand he has wrapped around his ankle. Bruce doesn’t fight him, doesn’t try to pull his leg back in.

(Jerome had told him not to move, but it had been more of a ‘don’t get off the bed, don’t try to run’ kind of “don’t move”, so it counted.)

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty, little head about.” At least not yet. He dances his fingers up Bruce’s legs, and further, enjoying how he can’t entirely hide the way his hips buck up when the hands brush over his thighs, his hips, his sides.

There are far more bruises and scars marking Bruce’s chest than Jerome had expected for a twenty-three-year-old rich kid, even one that did live in the exquisitely rotten cesspool that was Gotham city. The scars and bruises, some old, some fresh, had been a surprise, but a pleasant one at that. They just made Bruce _more_ interesting, and Jerome had been interested enough to begin with.

And it’s not that Jerome isn’t dying (or you know, _whatever)_ to know where they came from, to know just what Bruce Wayne gets up to in his spare time that leaves him bruised and bloody and roughed up. He’s just a little distracted, or rather, preoccupied by everything else. Like the aforementioned blush, or Bruce’s pretty, pink mouth and even prettier neck, or how soft and grabbable his hair is currently looking.

Or the taste of blood on his tongue.

Or the way Bruce’s eyes keep flicking between the hands that have trailed back down to his hips, and Jerome’s mouth.

He can always find out later.

“What are you?” Bruce asks carefully, and Jerome can hear him swallow.

“Did the fangs and the blood-sucking not give it away? ,I’d heard you were smart.”

Bruce actually looks insulted for a moment, before he manages to school his features into something more blank, and he is honestly the most precious fucking thing Jerome has ever seen

“While Gotham has its fair share of oddities, I think I can be forgiven for not immediately jumping to,” he hesitates, frowning. “‘Vampire’, even with the teeth.”

Jerome raises an eyebrow.

“Some people have naturally overly-pointed incisors. Or they’ve had them altered.”

He digs his thumbs into Bruce’s hips. Not with his full strength, he doesn’t want to shatter his pelvis after all, but just enough to raise bruises of his own. Bruce can’t quite hide the way his breath hitches.

“Hmm. The blood then? That happen a lot in Gotham?”

“Some...some people just like that.”

Jerome shifts up, hovering over Bruce.

“They do.” He says as he brushes a hand lightly over the bulge between Bruce’s legs. Jerome gets a gasp this time, and Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, head dropping back as his hips jerk up. “You clearly like it.”

Bruce shakes his head.

“You did something to me.”

“Nuh uh.” Jerome shifts again, leaning in to whisper in Bruce’s ear and pressing more of his weight down on his hips. “I told you to stay put. I told you to be good for me. I didn’t tell you to like it. If you’re getting hard from me holding you down, from me biting you, then that’s on you darling.”

Bruce is still shaking his head, but he’s also rocking his hips up, trying to press his clothed cock more firmly into Jerome’s hand. Just to be mean, Jerome pulls his hand away and pokes at Bruce’s furrowed brow.

“You shouldn’t frown so much, Brucie. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Bruce actually snaps at his fingers, and Jerome laughs as he jerks back. He yanks at Bruce’s hips, pulling him further down the bed, flat on his back, and presses him down with a bit more of his real strength, wordlessly showing Bruce just how unmatched he currently is. There’s a flash in Bruce’s eyes, and an uptick in his heartbeat that tells Jerome the message is received loud and clear, but he can help but notice that he’s not picking up fear. At least, not just fear.

Jerome settles back onto his knees, grabbing that same leg, the one he had been feeding from earlier and throwing it over his shoulder.

“Don’t be rude, precious. Especially after you were so gracious earlier, offering to take care of dinner.”

“What are you talking about? I said I would pay if we went out, not-” Bruce cuts himself off with a gasp as Jerome bites back into his thigh.

The truth is, everyone’s blood tastes different. Jerome has been around a long time, tried all sorts of blood, and no one tastes quite the same. You can taste who someone _is_ in their blood. You can taste where they’ve been, what they’ve been doing. You can taste drink and drugs and illness and grief and sex and all kinds of fun things in someone’s blood. You can even taste fear.

(He’d had Bruce down to his underwear, shirt and pants and shoes and everything else tossed who knows where. It had only taken the lightest of nudges to get him on the bed, and Jerome had enjoyed pushing him onto his back, holding him down, leaning in to tell Bruce to _stay_ , to be a good boy, and watching his pupils dilate as the compulsion took. He’d enjoyed all the noises he was able to pull out, like the way Bruce had moaned when Jerome had pinched a nipple, or grazed his teeth – his normal, human teeth – down his chest. He’d enjoyed the way Bruce had touched him, nails digging into his back and hands on his ass trying to pull him closer, neck arched back beautifully. He’d enjoyed the way Bruce had chased after him, chased after the contact when Jerome had pulled away to remove his own shirt.

Kneeling between his legs, Jerome had waited until Bruce noticed the way his eyes were shifting unnaturally, until he noticed the fangs. He’d waited until the scent of Bruce’s genuine fear hit him to sink his teeth in, and he’d enjoyed that the most.)

Some people just taste better than others, and Bruce is, quite honestly, the best thing Jerome’s tasted in a long time. The hot blood rushes over his tongue and he drinks deeply. He squeezes Bruce’s thigh to encourage the blood to flow faster and barely feels the answering kick against his back, too lost in glutting himself.

He _does_ feel a hand fumble clumsily at his shoulder, then the side of his face, before it moves up and tangles in his hair. The hand doesn’t try to pull him off; instead it just clutches for the sake of it. Looking up, he sees Bruce, eyes shut, somewhat paler than before, with a hand clamped over his mouth as the other pulls at Jerome’s hair.

He keeps watching Bruce from the corner of his eye as he drinks, hiking his leg higher, aiming for a better angle. He slides his free hand up Bruce’s other leg, running his fingers along the soft, oh so easily broken skin of his thigh. The leg twitches as Jerome slips his fingers under the edge of his black shorts. He scrapes a nail along the crease of his hip, and Bruce shudders in his grip.

Jerome wants more, so he presses his tongue against the bite as he edges his fingers across to brush against Bruce’s cock. The shudder this time is more pronounced, and he’s rewarded not just with a fresh mouthful of blood, but with a _whimper._ Jerome can’t help but bite down harder in answer, which earns him another little cry that goes straight to his own cock. He slides his hand out of Bruce’s underwear and reaches up to pull at the hand Bruce still has clamped over his mouth. Jerome can hear the sounds Bruce makes well enough either way, but he wants Bruce to hear them too. And moans and whimpers and cries and the like always do sound better unimpeded.

As blood continues to fill his mouth and slip down his throat, Jerome keeps a careful ear on the sound of Bruce’s pulse, the strength of his heartbeat. He has no intention of killing him, and it would just be a waste of criminal proportions if he drained him by accident because he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

Because there’s something else there. Something else that makes Jerome want _more_.

He could have easily dragged Bruce off into a dark corner the night they met and had him then and there, but for some reason he had stopped himself, and it had only partly had to do with the cop, the _hunter_ , hovering around him, or rather, around Bruce, all night. There had been something in the way Bruce held himself, in the way he moved and watched the people around him, in the way he had swallowed and bit his lip when Jerome flirted obnoxiously with him, in the way he had tilted his head to the side, puzzled and wary, but intrigued, unconsciously baring his neck when Jerome pushed into his space. There had been something that made Jerome _want_ , and he’s already glad he waited.

It’s been years since Jerome’s found anyone who could keep his interest for longer than it took to drain and/or fuck them (Jeremiah doesn’t count. He somehow manages to be both incredibly dull, and the most interesting person in Jerome’s life. And Jerome doesn’t have to worry about him going anywhere) but it’s starting to look like he might have stumbled across two new, maybe even long-term, toys, not just in the same city, but at the same party. Bruce is certainly turning out to be plenty of fun already, and Jerome cannot wait to get properly stuck into the esteemed Captain Gordon.

He pulls back eventually, when the thump of Bruce’s heartbeat in his ear begins to slow, and the hand in his hair weakens. He licks at the trails of blood that dribble from the bite, before lifting Bruce’s leg off his shoulder and letting it drop back down to the bed, where it falls limply.

“I suppose,” he says, licking at his lips to catch any stray drops. “There is something to be said for blue bloods.”

Bruce lets out a soft moan, which Jerome chooses to take as an appreciative response to his joke, because he is hilarious. Bruce’s head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering halfway between open and shut, but he’s panting, open-mouthed, pretty, pink lips slick with spit. His bottom lip is flushed and swollen from where he’d obviously been biting down, and the sight makes Jerome want to just _shove_ something in there. A knife. His fingers. His cock. _Something._

He settles for dragging his fingers over the bite on Bruce’s thigh, coating them with blood, and reaching up to swipe the blood across Bruce’s mouth, first the bottom lip, then the top. The red against his skin, across his mouth, looks good. Really good. Jerome crawls up Bruce’s body to hover over him, watching as his eyes flutter open, then blink in confusion when he tastes the blood. He leans down to chase the tongue, licking up the blood then pushing his own tongue into Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce moans into the kiss, and Jerome swallows up the sound.

He can smell, can _taste_ , the arousal, the undercurrent of fear, and mixed with the rich scent of fresh blood, it's leaving him feeling a little dizzy.

Not to mention, hard.

He lowers his body so that he’s fully on top of Bruce, pushing him into the bed with his weight. Bruce’s arms reach up to grasp at him, a hand pushing weakly at his shoulder while the other digs short, sharp nails into his side, presumably trying to get him off.

Jerome laughs into Bruce’s mouth. He’s not sure if Bruce has forgotten exactly how useless the actions are, or if he’s fighting for the sake of it, his body, in its sluggish state, confused and panicking at being held down.

He rolls his hips, brushing their cocks together as he licks into Bruce’s mouth, and the way the hand that was pushing at his shoulder starts clenching instead is almost as good as feeling the shudder that runs through Bruce’s body. He breaks away, slipping a hand under Bruce’s head, grabbing a fist-full of hair as he moves the other down to prod at the still sluggishly bleeding bite.

Bruce gasps, seemingly wincing at the pain, but this close, with their bodies pressed together, Jerome can feel the way his cock twitches when he presses down on the bite, can smell the precum that’s leaking into his underwear. Bruce tries to pull away, but Jerome hold him in place, grip tighter than it probably needs to be, but worth it for the hiss it pulls out when he tugs it.

He kisses Bruce again, smiling into it as he presses back down on the bite. He traces his tongue over Bruce’s lips, tasting the blood still smeared in spots, and takes advantage of Bruce’s little answering gasp to shove his tongue back into his open mouth. Bruce must shake it off quickly because he bites down harshly on Jerome’s tongue in response. Jerome grunts, because _ow_ , and squeezes Bruce’s thigh hard in retaliation until he lets go. He doesn’t pull back though, because Bruce has, in fact, bitten hard enough to draw blood.

Bruce flinches when he presumably registers the taste of blood in his mouth, his noises of protest lost between them, but Jerome holds him firmly in place with the hand in his hair, letting his tongue bleed into Bruce’s mouth, and even making sure to scrape it against Bruce’s teeth to keep it bleeding a little longer. The bite heals fast, but he keeps his mouth on Bruce’s long enough to ensure it was enough.

Pulling back and sitting up, Jerome immediately clamps a hand over Bruce’s mouth to prevent him spitting the blood out. Jerome is nowhere near done, so it was going to happen at some point tonight, unless he wanted to spend an hour or so disposing of a body, but there’s a part of him that just thrills at Bruce having brought it on himself. At him having sought out, t _aken_ the blood, on his own, even if that hadn’t been the intention. Jerome keeps the hand there as he drags a finger lightly up and down Bruce’s throat, waiting until he sees Bruce swallow to remove it.

As soon as he does, Bruce scrambles back against the headboard. Coughing, practically gagging, he turns to stare at Jerome with something close to panic in his eyes.

“What?” Jerome says, shrugging. “ _You_ bit _me_.”

“What-, what did you do?”

“Relax, would you? You’re fine.” He nods down at Bruce’s leg. “See?”

They both watch as the bite starts to knit itself back together, the bruises on his hips fading too. Jerome watches as Bruce touches the still blood-smeared, but now unbitten skin of his thigh.

“See,” he says. “Good as new. Just...try not to die in the next twenty-four hours or so.”

Bruce’s eyes snap back to him.

“What do you mean? Is that-? Are you planning on killing me?”

“I literally just said _don’t_ die. Are you even listening to me?” Jerome shakes his head. “You know what, never mind. I’ll just keep you here, that way I won’t have to worry about you doing anything stupid.”

“Why do you assume I’d do something stupid?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He reaches out to snag Bruce’s wrist, and uses it to pull him into his lap. Bruce falls awkwardly against his chest but manages to get a knee either side of Jerome’s hips. When he steadies himself, they’re eye to eye, his hands resting on Jerome’s chest while Jerome loops an arm around his waist.

“Maybe because you went to a stranger’s house and decided to put out on the first date? Not calling you a slut or anything, okay maybe a little, but it’s fine, I’m into that. Just...a pretty boy like you Bruce? You should be careful. All sorts of psychos out there. You never know who you’re going home with.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Or maybe, because of all those cuts and bruises and what not you had up until a few moments ago that I know _I_ didn’t leave on you.”

And that certainly gets a reaction.

Bruce goes stiff, something sharp and dangerous flashing in his eyes, even as his face remains perfectly casual.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and Jerome could almost honestly buy the look of confusion Bruce gives him. But he’s always been good at reading people, and he has the advantage of being able to hear Bruce’s heartbeat stutter.

“I just couldn’t help but notice. You seem, oh what’s the word? A little _battered_.” He puts on the fakest look of concern he can manage. “You’re not seeing someone else are you Bruce? I don’t necessarily have a problem being a mistress, but if they’re hurting you...”

“Would you please shut-”

“Or is it more like the thing with me holding you down? Do you like being smacked around? Do you like it when someone holds you down and carves into that pretty, fair skin of yours?”

“Right, I’m done. Let me go Jerome.”

Bruce tries to move away but Jerome just pulls him closer.

“Oooo, does Gotham have some sort of Fight Club going?”

Bruce slams his head forward, smashing their foreheads together. It admittedly dazes him for a second, but he recovers quickly enough to grab Bruce before he can get away and throw him back down onto the bed. He sits on Bruce’s stomach and pins his shoulders down.

“So, I’ve clearly touched on something here, but there’s no cause for rudeness Bruce.”

“Get off.”

“We’ll get to that in a bit.”

Bruce scrunches up his nose, but Jerome leans in to brush his mouth against his ear.

“I could just make you tell me,” he whispers.

He lets that hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the way Bruce’s breath catches in his throat, and he way he holds himself deliberately still. Whatever he’s hiding, it’s clearly good.

“But where would the fun be in that?”

Jerome pulls back and lets one hand trail down Bruce’s chest while the other rests across his throat.

“I’ll find out eventually,” he says. “And since we’ve decided that you’ll be spending the night, how about we move things along?”

He puts a bit of weight into the hand on Bruce’s neck, pressing down just a little.

“Really?” Bruce asks, clearly enough, given that Jerome isn’t cutting his air or blood flow off quite yet.

“What? You’re not in the mood anymore? You certainly were before.”

“That’s not how it works. And besides, that was _before_ you attacked me.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

 “What would you call biting me without my permission? Without even telling me that you’re a v _ampire_?”

“Foreplay.”

Bruce lets out a frustrated noise that stutters off when Jerome closes his hand around his neck proper. He bends down to plant a kiss on Bruce’s cheek, then lets go of his throat to pat the same cheek lightly. Bruce turns his head away, looking off to the side, but all that does is bare his neck.

Honestly, one would think he was doing it on purpose.

But Jerome’s full enough, of blood anyway, and hungry for something else.

“So how do you want it Bruce?” he asks, running his nose up his neck, across his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Rough, hard? Soft and sweet and gently?” He shifts so that he’s covering Bruce, rather than simply sitting on him. “Or do you want me to take the choice away from you? Make you beg for it? Make you a pet, a toy who’d do whatever I asked? Make you mew and plead and whimper for my cock and my teeth?”

“God,” Bruce moans as his hips jerk up. “Stop.”

“Is that really what you want? Because I will... maybe. But I don’t think it is.”

He rolls his own hips down, and would you look at that? Someone is definitely still hard.

Someone or something out there likes Jerome, because god, what a beautiful little whore.

He wants to hurt him so badly.

“Jerome?”

And speaking of.

“Up here, brother dearest,” Jerome replies, not bothering to raise his voice. He’d almost forgotten about Jeremiah, though in his defense, Bruce is rather distracting. Traffic must have been bad too, for it to have taken him this long.

Bruce jerks under him.

“Wait, your brother? As in-?”

Jerome shushes him and lifts his head to watch as Jeremiah storms through the bedroom door, launching right back into the rant Jeremiah had picked up on earlier.

“Have you actually gone insane?”

Jerome rolls his eyes.

“You know, you’re always accusing me of being mad.”

“Well you always seem to give me reason to. Did you really think I wouldn’t hear? That I wouldn’t know it was you immediately? What were you thinking? Or is it too much to assume you were thinking at all?”

Normally, when Jeremiah’s all riled up like this, whining about whatever, pretending to be something he’s not, in his professional looking suits with his hair all neat and the glasses he hasn’t needed in almost a century, Jerome wants to rough him up. Pin him down, dirty him a little, make him cry. Make him bleed, and then let his brother return the favour. And admittedly, he does still very much want to do those things. It’s just that, as fun as watching Jeremiah work himself into a snit is, Jerome has a very pretty human under him at the moment, and his brother’s bitching is killing the mood.

He sighs loudly and climbs off Bruce, sitting down on the edge of the bed as Bruce rolls over. He opens his mouth to say something but pauses when he notices Jeremiah has frozen.

His brother is starring at Bruce. Jerome watches as he swallows noticeably, eyes roving over Bruce’s face, his chest and down, before darting back up. Bruce, having sat up on his knees, looks back at him for a moment, before looking away and flushing with something Jerome thinks might be embarrassment. Jerome hears Jeremiah inhale sharply. He doesn’t move towards Bruce, but his fingers start twitching.

“Oh, right,” Jerome says, mood instantly perking back up. “Jeremiah, Bruce. Bruce, Jeremiah.” He gestures between them. “No, wait, you two know each other already, don’t you? Hey, aren’t you technically his boss, Bruce?”

“Hello Jeremiah,” Bruce says, trying, and partially succeeding, to school his face into composed.

“What are you doing?” Jeremiah says slowly, still starring at Bruce, but clearly talking to Jerome.

“Well, I _was_ about to have sex.”

“No, you weren’t,” Bruce says, the frown audible in his voice.

Jerome snorts, looking back over his shoulder and cocking an eyebrow.

“You say that now...”

“No, Jerome. _What are you doing?”_

He turns back to his brother, smiling.

“What does it look like?” Jeremiah finally pulls his gaze away from Bruce, something shifting across his face. “Bruce and I happened to hit it off at that fundraiser I was invited to last week. The one with the kids.”

“It was the Wayne Foundation’s annual fundraiser for the children’s hospital.” Bruce says.

“Whatever.”

“And you weren’t invited, you crashed it,” Jeremiah snaps.

“ _Any_ -way,” Jerome says over him. “Bruce made such an impression that I couldn’t _not_ ask him out. You understand right? _I know you do_. So we agreed on dinner, which you missed, sorry, but I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home and all, though technically _you’re_ the one crashing here, and we were just about to move on to dessert.”

Jerome puts his hands behind himself on the bed and leans back, watching as Jeremiah appears to fight back a snarl. He can sense Bruce tense behind him, but he keeps his eyes on his brother, whose nostrils are flaring and whose hands have gone from twitching to clenched fists.

“I mean, now that you’re here, you are more than welcome to join us. Dessert, leftovers. You know I’m always happy to share.”

Jeremiah moves towards him, tense like he’s going to hit him, or throw himself at him, but then he stops, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

“Whatever, Jerome. Just-” Jeremiah opens his eyes and huffs out a breath. “Just get him tidied up and _out of here_ , so we can work out how _you’re_ going to fix _your_ mess.”

He steps forward and leans down, planting his hands on the bed either side of Jerome. The fangs are out, peeking from below his lip, and he’s close enough that their legs are touching, and Jerome can see the way his eyes are flashing behind his glasses.

“Because,” Jeremiah says lowly. “I am not going to let your boredom-driven stupidity get me killed. You do realise that there is a hunter in the GCPD don’t you? And that he’s a captain, no less?”

Jerome stretches his neck up, bringing his face closer to Jeremiah’s until they’re virtually a hair’s breadth apart.

“Yes,” he says. “I am well aware of what Captain Gordon is, or at least, was.”

Jeremiah’s eyes dart down to Jerome’s mouth, all sorts of things flicking across his face. Just when Jerome decides that, he’s going to have to do the work here, as usual, and close the distance between them, Jeremiah stands up with frustrated noise and stalks away to start pacing.

“In that case, why? Why the hell did you do it?”

“Okay, I’ll admit, boredom did play its part. But mostly, to see what would happen next.”

He hazards a look back a Bruce, who has started to edge away, and is watching them both warily. Jerome reaches out to pat his leg, but Bruce slaps it away. Jerome laughs at him, before turning back to where his brother is still pacing.

“I know discretion and caution and general good sense are things you have always struggled with,” Jeremiah says, practically pulling at his hair now. “But seven people, Jerome? _Seven people_? You tossed seven people off the top of the Gotham Gazette.”

“I didn’t toss anyone.”

“You compelled them to jump off then. That’s not the point. The point is that you very publicly left seven bodies on the doorstep of the city’s busiest newspaper.”

“I’m still not seeing the issue here.”

“It was sloppy. Needlessly over the top and clearly a stunt designed to get attention. You do remember that this kind of display is exactly why we had to pack up and move to Gotham in the first place?”

“Would you calm down? I’m well aware that there isn’t actually a stick up your ass, so how about you stop acting like there is? People aren’t going to jump right to “vampire” the moment a bunch of nobodies trip or fall or jump or whatever off a roof. Even with all those stories about a giant bat stalking the city and leaving criminals tied to lampposts. Hell, I’d already started snacking on Bruce and he was still skeptical.”

Jeremiah looks at him consideringly.

“If I had to guess,” Jeremiah says, “I’d say you were baiting James Gordon.”

“Huh, maybe there’s a reason people always thought you were the smart one.”

Jeremiah sighs.

“I am well aware that trying to tell you what to do usually just encourages you to do the opposite of whatever I’ve asked, but _please_ Jerome, if you are going to start openly killing people, if you are going to start toying with one of the city’s most well-known police captains, at least be smart about it, lest you end up killing us both.”

“So that _was_ you? You killed those people?” Bruce asks, before Jerome can reply, voice shaking with something that, interestingly enough, isn’t fear. If Jerome had to hazard a guess, he might even say it was anger.

“Well, technically hitting the pavement killed them but...”

Jerome can sense Bruce moving before he does, so before he can do something stupid, he grabs him by the neck. Bruce strikes out, and Jerome might accidently squeeze a little too much when a hit catches him in the side, because how in the hell is he able to hit so hard? He lets go of Bruce’s neck and slaps him across the face, not as hard as _he_ can, but hard enough to knock Bruce off balance. It gives him the chance to get Bruce pinned down properly.

Okay, so clearly anger.

“ _Stop_ ,” he says, holding Bruce’s head in place and locking eyes. The hand that had been pressing against his neck falters, and then drops down to the bed. After waiting a moment to see if Bruce would try again, Jerome loosens his grip on Bruce’s hair and starts running his hand through it instead, leaning down, making sure Bruce is looking at him.

“ _Just relax Bruce. It’s fine, you’re fine. Don’t worry about it_ ” Jerome can see in Bruce’s eyes that he’s fighting it, not giving into the suggestion the way he had earlier, but he can’t hold out long. “ _It’s not your problem, it doesn’t matter to you that I killed those people. It doesn’t.”_

All at once the tension goes out of his body, and Bruce sinks further into the bed under him, blinking rapidly.

“There,” Jerome says, smiling, patting Bruce’s reddening cheek. “Don’t we feel better?”

“About what?”

“Exactly.”

He pecks Bruce on the mouth before turning back to see Jeremiah looking at him oddly.

“What?” he mouths. He turns back to Bruce when Jeremiah just rolls his eyes.

"You'll have to excuse my brother, Bruce. He’s not always the best with social interactions. Nor with what constitutes appropriate first date talking points. But it’s understandable. I mean, not to tattle, but ‘Miah here actually has a bit of a crush on-”

In a blink Jerome is pulled off Bruce and pressed down against the bed, Jeremiah’s hand tight around his throat. Jeremiah moves to sit on top of him, and the strength of his grip is enough that Jerome can feel his windpipe giving way.

It’s not like he needs to breath or anything, but the pressure does make it difficult to talk.

(Although he shouldn’t complain. Jeremiah could have ripped his vocal cords out in order to shut him up.

He’d done it before, and it had taken them _days_ to grow back.)

From the corner of his eye Jerome sees Bruce scramble back to the edge of the bed. Jeremiah continues to squeeze, his nails digging in and breaking the skin.

“Would. You. Just. Stop?” he hisses. If they were against a wall or the floor Jeremiah would probably be smashing his head back to punctuate each word. And that just reminds Jerome that it’s been a while since they’ve taken it upon themselves to, essentially, fuck each other to death.

Instead of trying to break the grip, he reaches up and yanks on Jeremiah’s tie, using it to pull him down and smash their mouths together. Jeremiah makes an affronted noise, and Jerome takes advantage of his open mouth to shove his tongue inside. He doesn’t bite him like Bruce had, because his brother is nothing if not easy. Shove something in his mouth, touch him a little, and he’s done.

Although maybe Jerome’s underestimating how mad he’s made him, because while Jeremiah is currently sucking on his tongue, and although he’s let go of his throat, he’s chosen instead to rake his nails down Jerome’s chest, scoring five, deep, red lines from his collar to his stomach. Jerome yells, because it hurts, even in the good way, but the noise is swallowed up with Jeremiah's mouth still on his.

Jerome digs both his hands into his brother’s hair and pulls as he rolls his hips up, a shudder running through them both. He wraps a leg around Jeremiah’s hip and shifts his weight to the side, rolling them over. He lands on top, quickly sitting back on Jeremiah’s hips and planting his hands on his chest. He reaches out to pluck the glasses off his brother’s face and enjoys the sound of them shattering on the ground when he tosses them over his shoulder.

“Now,” he says, slapping a hand over Jeremiah’s mouth when he opens it to speak. “If you’re done being a bitch, how about we revisit my earlier suggestion of dessert?”

Jerome raises an eyebrow when Jeremiah looks down at the hand over his mouth, but relents when his brother nods.

“You’re not really suggesting that-?”

“What?” Jerome cuts him off. “You’re telling me you don’t want to bite into that pretty, pink throat and take a sip, hmm?”

He hears the hiss of Bruce’s sharp intake of breath to his left. He turns to look at him, nudging Jeremiah’s cheek to get him to do the same. Bruce is still sitting there, body tensed, caught between something like fight and flight. He also seems to be a little more interested in what was just happening, and what was being suggested, than a fine, upstanding young man slash pillar of the community probably should be. There’s a flush, spreading from his face down his chest, his eyes are a thin ring of blue around black, and Jerome doesn’t even need to look down between his legs to know that he’s at least partially hard again, if not still.

(He looks anyway, because it’s a pretty picture)

“He’s good, trust me.” He grins at Bruce, keeping his eyes on him as he continues to address his brother. “I mean, if I were the poetic type, I’d probably wax lyrically about exactly _how_ good he tastes.”

Jerome can still see a little smear of blood from earlier, the red smudging out from the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

“And you want it, don’t you Bruce?” he says, watching as Bruce bites his lip, even as he shakes his head. “You want Jeremiah to feed off you too. You want him to touch you. You want both of us. Come on, _tell the truth_.”

He watches Bruce’s face as he works out what to say. The fear and now muted anger and the confusion and the shamed arousal warring with Jerome’s command for truth.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

Jeremiah grabs at his leg, and when Jerome looks down, he sees he’s got his eyes screwed shut, mouth working silently over words even he can’t pick out. Jerome pushes the edges of his jacket apart, pulling his shirt from where it was tucked into his pants to slip his hands underneath and run his hands along the bare skin of his brother’s sides.

“See, he wants it.” Jerome moves his hips, pressing back and feeling Jeremiah’s cock against his ass. “And if you’re worried about cheapening whatever sappy, romantic nonsense feelings you’ve built up with you pining with a one-night stand as it were, there’s nothing to say we _can’t_ keep him more long-term. That we can’t keep him forever even.”

“You always get bored too quickly,” Jeremiah says, opening his eyes.

“I haven’t gotten bored with you.” Something almost soft flashes across Jeremiah face at that. “But if I ever do get bored, it’s not like I’d stop you doing what you pleased with him.”

“I am right here, you know,” Bruce says.

“Yes, you are. And you’re also entirely too far away.” Jerome crooks his finger at him. “Come on princess,” he says, when Bruce doesn’t move. “Don’t make me make you.”

Bruce does start crawling over, and Jerome manages to refrain from grabbing him the moment he’s within reach. Instead he waits for him to get close enough, then gently moves him so that he’s kneeling next to Jeremiah’s arm, and near enough that Jerome can touch him easily.

Jerome reaches out and digs his thumb into Bruce’s bottom lip. The skin splits around his nail, and he hears Jeremiah’s sharp intake of breath beneath him. He drags the bloody lip down as he slowly pulls his hand back and watches intently as Bruce’s tongue darts out to lick at the blood.

“It’s been a while since we’ve shared someone,” Jerome says “Do you think he could take us both? I think he could.” Jerome drags his hand down Bruce’s chest. “I think he’d look lovely, bleeding between us. Stuffed full, stuffed in both ends. Ridden hard and filled up, even as we drained him practically dry.”

Bruce whimpers at the words, arching up as Jerome toys with a nipple.

Leaning forward, Jerome whispers into his ear.

“And then we could just slip you some of our blood and do it all over again.”

Bruce cries out when Jerome grabs his cock through his underwear, squeezing. One hand grabs at Jerome’s arm, nails digging in but not with the intention of getting him to stop, while the other lands on Jeremiah’s chest as Bruce curls in on himself.

“You’re right, he would,” Jeremiah says, brushing his fingers over the hand on his chest, dragging them up the soft, fragile skin of Bruce’s wrist. “He’d look beautiful.”

Jeremiah moves his other hand around Bruce and slips it down the back of his underwear.

“He _is_ beautiful.”

Jerome watches as Jeremiah slides his fingers between Bruce’s cheeks. He can’t see too much, given that Bruce is still _wearing_ his underwear, but he guesses that Jeremiah must touch his hole, or even push the tip of his finger inside, because Bruce suddenly jerks, and collapses forward over Jeremiah’s chest with a moan.

Without any preamble, Jeremiah leans up, grabs at Bruce and sinks his teeth into his neck. Bruce gasps, letting go of Jerome’s arm to grasp at Jeremiah. He moans, shuddering as Jeremiah drinks from him, Jeremiah’s own noises off appreciation muffled. Jerome pats Bruce’s head twice, then swings his leg back over Jeremiah’s hips.

Jeremiah pulls back, panting, just as Jerome climbs off him. His eyes are bright, and his mouth is bloodstained as he looks down at Bruce sprawled across his chest. He licks his lips and stares at Bruce with something like awe. Bruce lifts his head to look back at him, and from where he’s sitting, Jerome can’t see his face. Whatever it is though, it has Jeremiah reaching out a hand to brush against his cheek.

Jeremiah then sits up properly and pulls Bruce fully into his lap. Bruce goes easily, clutching at Jeremiah’s shoulders and practically rutting against his stomach. Jeremiah grabs his ass to hold him still, which makes Bruce whine, but the whine turns to a moan when the hands on his ass start squeezing.

Jeremiah bites back into his neck, pulling him close and pressing their bodies together. Bruce arches his neck, eyes closed, mouth open and spilling a constant string of sounds as he pulls at the suit jacket stretched across Jeremiah's back.

It is a fucking sight to behold.

Jerome actually loves watching Jeremiah feed. In his opinion the only time he looks more beautiful than when he’s drinking from someone is when he’s killing them. Or cumming.

The best times are when those three things coincide.

But that’s not going to happen tonight. Or at least, not all of them. Two out of three is looking pretty likely though, and that’s more than good enough.

Crawling behind Bruce, Jerome takes hold of his hips and licks a line up his spine. He scrapes his teeth across a shoulder, listening to the sounds of Jeremiah drinking down Bruce’s blood and Bruce loving it. He presses up against Bruce, his chest against his back, and throws and arm over him to link their fingers together on Jeremiah’s back. Bruce squeezes back, and Jerome takes great joy in digging their fingers in hard enough to tear through both the suit and the shirt underneath, their joined fingers then able to brush across bare skin.

He slides his other hand between his body and Bruce’s and takes one of the hands Jeremiah still has on Bruce’s ass and places it on his cock. Jerome tugs on Bruce’s earlobe as his brother obligingly starts rubbing. He fucks himself against Bruce, cock hardening, with Jeremiah’s hand caught between them.

Jerome wants to leave Bruce red and black and blue. He wants to leave him aching, sore, and used. He wants Bruce to think about this, about them, constantly. To be reminded every time he moves, when the bites pull and sting and the bruises and the hurts ache. Every time he gets changed, when he’s in the shower, when he looks in the mirror, Jerome wants the reminders there, and when they start to fade and heal, he’ll just have to make more.

He’s also seriously considering compelling Bruce to forgo the turtlenecks he seems to be so fond of, at least for a while. Let everyone see the bites and bruises Jeremiah is leaving on his neck. Let Bruce try to explain away what happened.

Oh, he hopes Gordon sees them.

Jeremiah pulls away from Bruce’s neck, licking at the would before immediately moving to his mouth. Bruce can no doubt taste the blood when Jeremiah kisses him, but he’s either getting accustomed to the taste, or he’s too dazed and aroused to care.

Or, the lady simply protested far too much earlier.

Jerome sits back and watches as Bruce and Jeremiah try to get Jeremiah undressed without breaking their kiss. He’s rapidly thinking ahead to what he’s going to do to Bruce, to both of them, tonight. Working out how best to draw it out, to wreck Bruce as thoroughly as he wants to. The have roughly twenty-four hours to kill until the risk of Bruce doing something stupid and getting himself turned drops to a satisfactory level.

He’s also thinking ahead to next time. Jerome likes a chase, and he knows Jeremiah does too. Maybe next time, next date night, he’ll have Bruce fight them, try to run, that way they can hunt him down properly.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have more ideas for this 'verse - at least one part detailing the twins' backstory and how they were turned, and another that includes the Jerome/Jim stuff, and Jerome fucking with him, more ongoing Wayleskacest, and possibly a reworking of Theo's plan for Bruce in Season 2 - but we'll see. My list of WIPs is already too long.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Damned Divinity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082719) by [justanothermaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothermaniac/pseuds/justanothermaniac)




End file.
